


You Only Get What You Grieve

by LealAlchemical



Series: An Altmer and a Nord walked into a bar... [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Gen, Original Character - Freeform, don't know what all to tag, gonna be some gore later so uh, might change the tags later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25394380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LealAlchemical/pseuds/LealAlchemical
Summary: Detailing the life and adventures of the High Elf hero of Kvatch.Title might change later, description definitely will.(Title comes from Stay Frosty Royal Milk Tea- Fall Out Boy)
Series: An Altmer and a Nord walked into a bar... [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839193
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need this to understand the other fic, Got a Feeling Inside That I Can't Domesticate (about the Last Dragonborn.) nor do you need this one to understand that one, have fun!

The young blond elf screeched and howled as the guards tried to pick him up. Tried to pull him away from the crumpled figure on the floor. His long hair flew and despite his small size and youth he twisted free several times, only to have strong hands wrap around his wrists and arms.

“Syrisse, it’s ok, It’s over now”

He only screamed louder, wailing and sobbing until he twisted wrong and slipped out of the grasp of the person holding him. His head thudded unto the bricks below and he slipped out of consciousness.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When his senses returned, it no longer smelled of wet bricks and scummy water. The sounds of the sewers replaced by low chatter and the nighttime sounds of the city from the window. Syrisse thought of home, he thought of his warm bed, and as he thought of his sister he froze. Hardly daring to breath, feeling like the air itself was trying to drown him he choked back a sob.

He could still clearly see as guards attacking. The swords and shields cutting and bashing. He could still smell the metallic tang of blood on stone and hear her wheeze as she fell. Raising her too pale hands in defense.

He could hear voices. Real voices, from a room over.

“Are you sure he’ll be alright?”  
A woman’s voice. Familiar and soft.

“Yes, I’m sure he’s fine physically.”  
A man’s voice, also familiar but it put him on edge.  
“His parents were taken by a vampire, his sister either having been the cause or yet another victim, god knows what she did to him. He’ll be a difficult child.”

“I know this, but he’s friends with my son. I knew the family and they always did my husband right. I owe them this much, may their souls rest peacefully.”

The conversation dropped to low for the child to hear, so he crept out of the bed. Moving quietly and gently as his sister had taught him. Holding still at times when the room would spin and sway and he didn’t trust his ability to stand. 

He crept to the door placing his hands on it as it opened abruptly outwards, leaving him standing and looking up at the tall thin man on the other side.

He knew where he had heard his voice before. When his parents had first fallen ill, this was the healer that had tended to them. The healer who had let them die, who had left his sister alone and ill as well.

He took a rapid step back, the room swaying startlingly as he took a step, the next he felt was falling backwards onto the floor. The air was knocked from his lungs and the movement made his head throb.

Somebody rushed in, scooping him up easily and placing him back on the bed. Somebody held a bottle to his lips and the bitter taste of the potion slid into his mouth and down his throat. The ache subsided and the spinning slowed. 

The woman he recognized as Tyrio’s mother. She worked as a guard, oftentimes his sister would leave Syrisse at their house when she had to be away. 

Aderia stayed by his side through the night, reading to him, brushing his hair, and telling him it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t have known.

He stayed silent, words floating absently through his thoughts but never alighting on his tongue. His sister had never hurt him. He knew this. He was… angry? At who though?

Was he angry at the people who took his sister? Was he angry at his sister for leaving? Himself for letting this happen and not even being able to speak up against it?

Eventually, he settled on being angry at who caused this to happen in the first place. Even at ten years old he knew enough about vampirism to know one did not just become a vampire unless there was another vampire about.

Thus, there was another vampire loose in the city. As days passed the dull ache was slowly replaced by small, writhing coals of rage towards this mysterious antagonist. Even when he began to use his words once more, Syrisse kept this rage under the surface, falling into the role of traumatized child to everyone who saw him.

Still, he grew older. He chafed against the authority and curfew of his new foster mother (she cared but she didn’t understand), pretended to confide his feelings to his friend Tyrio (who always knew something was up, but he didn’t question him.). 

“Syrisse, give me a chance will you?” Tyrio gasped for air, leaning on his wooden practice sword. His face was red and he had a welt on the back of his hand.  
“Or at least play fair, it’s no fun if you cheat”

“I’m not cheating.” Syrisse leaned against the wall, pressing his back against the cool, shaded stone. “I’m just fighting like you would with a real sword.”

“But these aren’t real swords. This is a game.” His friend knocked the wooden blade against the wall to make his point.

“Fine. I’ll stop it with the dirty shots. That is, I’ll stop trying to hit your hands. I’ll still thrash you when you leave yourself open though, or else you’ll never learn.”

“And no more grabbing. You’re devilish enough without having to worry about keeping you from breaking my wrist.” Tyrio snapped back at him.

“I wasn’t going to break your wrist, and I’ll stop grabbing if you stop the hair pulling.” Syrisse pointed at the strings that had been yanked loose from their braid during their play-fighting.

They shook hands, mimicking what they’ve seen adults do before resuming their fighting. Syrisse was fast, but he was gangly and clumsy. Often missing the opportunity to block but always being swift to retaliate. Tyrio spent most of his time blocking, occasionally using opportune moments to prod his foster brother in the ribs.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We shouldn’t be here. Besides, it’s late and if mom gets off early she’s going to skin us.” Tyrio looked around with concern, eyes darting to every shadow and corner as if he expected monsters to come seething out as divine punishment.

“Shh, just in and out. I just.. I want a look around. It’s been so long.”  
Syrisse’s voice cracked on the last couple of words as they snuck into the abandoned house.

Despite the dust and the boarded windows, everything was the same as when he had followed his sister that night. 

Five years ago now… She was my age.

Dust swirled up in clouds and the vague smell of mildew was prevalent, causing Tyrio to cough as they padded slowly through the house. 

His parent’s room was still locked, the same as it always was. His sister’s room was open, but he dared not enter. His room sat small and quiet.

It had seemed so big back then. 

Tyrio put a hand on Syrisse’s shoulder and for a moment the heartbreak wasn’t an act. Down somewhere under the rage there was still splintered glass and bone in that soft, squishy part of him that almost made him break down into tears. But he had a job to do, one he wasn’t about to ignore.

As they went downstairs he carefully selected several books from the shelves. He stood between the shelf and Tyrio as he slipped a hand behind a copy of “Immortal Blood” and fished the pouch with the house’s spare keys out and slipped it into his sleeves. Grateful for the dusty velvet muting the metal.

“These books belonged to my parents. If I want to be a mage, I need to start studying.” He fingered the leather spines, tracing some of the faded lettering.

They retreated, Syrisse using the stolen key from Ms. Aderia’s keyring to lock the door before they retreated home.

After Syrisse had slipped the books under the bed, knowing that the other books underneath would help them blend (they were his, books he had bought and journals he had written in.). Truth be told, no one ever really looked through his belongings as long as he behaved. He put the keys in the same pouch where he kept his small allowance, using the jingle of coins to conceal the sound of keys.

When his foster mother was asleep, he snuck back into her room and put the stolen key where it belonged. Between her house key and the key to her chest at the foot of her bed.

Even if Tyrio did rat him out, no one would know he could pick the lock. No one would know that he continued to sneak in, eventually using it as practice for the muffle spell he had learned to avoid kicking up dust.

Tyrio had seen a frightened kid. Not wanting to go alone to the place where his family had died, but unable to afford the books he needed to learn magic.

Some part of him felt guilty, but ultimately he felt a sense of victory as he settled in for the night. He glanced over at his foster brother’s bed and made a shhh gesture before snuffing the candle and slowly drifting off to sleep.


	2. How Unfortunate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to work out how my particular HoK got into an imperial prison in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so the formatting looks a bit off on my end? Everything is looking good in docs, so I don't know quite where it's going wrong. If anyone knows OR if anyone thinks it's fine/just me let me know, thanks.

At 19 years old, Syrisse had begun to obsess.

He had found his sister’s journal, pouring over the pages as he shared a house with Tyrio. He had read the words so often the pages had loosened and the letters had permanently branded themselves somewhere behind his eyes.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_I saw him. He was leaning over them and they lay as if in a trance. Pale as corpses, their mysterious illness seeming to drain the life from them._

_It is no illness. It is a man. He brings his potions, his words, his lies, his fangs._

_This illness is the healer, he drains the very blood from our parents and claims he is trying to save them. How many others? How many have been lost to this undead fiend? I can’t go to the guard, they won’t believe me. I think he saw me... or heard me. He left faster than usual._

_\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_I was right. He knows that I know. Mother and father are sicker today, he smirks when he meets my eyes. He wasn’t here for long, but I fear for my family. I can’t involve Syrisse._

_\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_I feel more awake now than I did at first. The fever seems to have passed. Mother and Father are buried, he cornered me not long after. I know Syrisse is still grieving and now I have abandoned him as well._

_But I can smell him, I can hear his heart rate as though it were my own. I know what I have to do, but I refuse to risk what little family I have left. If I can slip out of the window I am familiar with some of the sleeping spots of the local beggars._

_I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t want this. I don’t know what to do._

_I do know I have to adapt, I have to be in control of this. I will not be a murderer._

_\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

His pale fingers brushed against the words one last time and he bowed his head before pulling his hood over his blond hair and slipping into the night.

The dagger felt heavy at his side as he came to crouch at the door of the man the monster named Doranis. The stone walls stood cold and silent in the gloom as he wiggled the picks in the lock, pointed ear close to the door to catch that quiet click. As he entered he thought that if not for how clean the entire space was he would have thought it abandoned. It was devoid of the smell of candle smoke, of food, or even of the herbs Doranis claimed he brought to heal his patients. Syrrise wondered if they served the vampire other purposes as well.

The new dagger hung heavy in its sheath, and he felt almost queasy as he darted up the stairs. Tonight, it would finally be done. A swift move and a swift escape and the man would be an unfortunate victim of a mysterious figure. Perhaps they would find his true nature when they investigated and prepared the body for burial. It would be too fast, too humane a death for somebody who had caused such an unknown amount of suffering. Syrisse wished he could bind him in the sunlight, or string him up and bleed him out as a butcher does a carcass. He wanted to see the man writhe but knew that he would not have the opportunity or even the will. Silent death in the shadows was one thing, looking a man in the eyes as he died is another.

But if all went well, one life would be gone and others spared.

The bedroom door was unlocked, still no light except for the moon shining through open curtains. The still figure lay curled beneath the sheets, a prone target. Vampires may be nocturnal by nature but in order to blend in Doranis had to stay with normal, human patterns. He had been making his rounds today, “treating” the ill, collecting his coin.

Without hesitation or a long enough delay for second thoughts, the altmer sped across the room. He sacrificed silence for speed as he raced to the figure’s bedside. The blankets were ripped back, the knife sunk into the target was pulled out and thrust back in as Syrisse stepped back in horror.

There was no body, no blood. Just blankets, twisted and shaped into a vague silhouette.

There was a slamming of a door, the thudding of boots on wood downstairs.

It had been a trap. Not only would he be caught trespassing, but the knife sunk deep into the mistaken target would clearly paint the picture of his intent. There was the window, but how many guards were watching? They had obviously already been watching the house, watching the window, bound to have been tipped off by Doranis himself.

How long could he hope to run? Would he make it beyond the city before catching an arrow in the back? Who would be forced to kill him or watch him die? Aderia and Tyrio had shown him kindness in their way, understanding his loss while keeping him safe and fed. Would they be forced to land a killing blow to prevent his escape? Were they members of the resounding clanging and shouting on the stairs?

Syrisse sat down, hands limp, head hung low. He stayed that way as the door slammed open hard enough to make the walls shake. He was as limp as a ragdoll as he was picked up by the arms and marched to the prison.

He confessed to his attempt, eyes dulled and vacant. He hung loosely between the arms of the guards as they brought him to his cell. He could hear a male voice shouting something from the other cell, he was vaguely aware of the dull ache of bruises across his face and body. The guards had “dropped” him several times, grabbing him back up roughly before continuing their march. No telling who had been watching this through their windows, but it felt like they took the back alleys instead of the main routes through the city.

He slowly slipped into unconsciousness, waking intermittently and shaking as though struck by fever. He didn’t know how long this went on before he was consistently awake and aware except that his bruises were still swollen and just turning color and his carefully groomed hair was tangled and dirty. There was a thin beam of light in his cell and shouting from across the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, now time to start working on the events you see in the game.


End file.
